Albright unzipped the bag and the odor rolled over us, a nauseating cocktail of stagnant mud, seaweed, lake creatures, and putrefying tissue.
“I'd guess she was in the water two or three days. She's not scavenged too badly.”
Holding my breath, I looked into the bag.
It was Primrose Hobbs, but it wasn't. Her face was bloated, her lips swollen like those of a tropical fish in an aquarium. The dark skin had sloughed in patches, revealing the pale underside of her epidermis, and giving her body a mottled appearance. Fish or eels had devoured her eyelids, and nibbled her forehead, cheeks, and nose.
“Won't be too much problem with cause,” said Albright. “Course, Tyrell will want a full autopsy.”
Primrose's wrists were wrapped with electrical tape, and I could see a thin wire embedded in her neck.
I tasted bile, swallowed hard.
“Garroted?”
He nodded. “Bastard wrapped the line around her throat, then tightened it in back with some kind of tool. Very effective in cutting off the windpipe.”
I placed a hand over my nose and mouth and leaned in. Jagged lines scored the flesh on one side of Primrose's neck, scratched by her nails as she clawed for life with her bound hands.
“It's her,” I said, lunging from the ambulance. I needed air. Miles and oceans of fresh air.
Hurrying to the far end of the unoccupied pier, I stood a moment, arms wrapped around my middle. A boat whined in the distance, grew loud, receded. Waves lapped below my feet. Frogs croaked from the weeds lining the shore. Life continued, oblivious to the death of one of its creatures.
I thought about Primrose, pictured her hobbling out to our final meeting in the morgue parking lot. A sixty- two-year-old black woman with a nursing degree, a weight problem, proficiency at cards, and a fondness for rhubarb crumble. There. I did know something about my friend.
My chest gave a series of heaves.
Steady.
I pulled a ragged breath.
Think.
What could Primrose have done, known, or seen that could have brought such violence down on her? Was she killed because of her involvement with me?
Another tremor. I gulped air.
Or was I magnifying my own role? Was her death random? We Americans are the world's leading producers of homicide. Was Primrose Hobbs bound and strangled for nothing more than her car? That made no sense. Not the garroting and the duct tape. This was a planned murder and she was the intended victim. But why?
Hearing doors slam, I turned. The attendants were climbing into the front of the ambulance. Seconds later, the engine revved, and the vehicle crawled up the dirt road.
Good-bye, old friend. If I brought you to this, please, please, forgive me. My lower lip trembled, and I bit down hard.
You will not cry. But why not? Why hold back tears of mourning for a good and gentle person?
I looked out across the lake. The sky was clearing, and the pines on the far shore stood out blue-black against the first pink rays of dusk. I recalled something else.
Primrose Hobbs loved sunsets. I gazed at the sunset and wept until I felt angry. Beyond angry. I felt a hot, red rage burning inside me.
Bridle it, Brennan. Use it.
Vowing to find answers, I drew a deep breath and walked up the pier to rejoin Crowe and Albright.
“What did she drive?” I asked.
Crowe consulted a spiral pad.
“Blue Honda Civic. Ninety-four. North Carolina plates.”
“It's not parked at the Riverbank Inn.”
Crowe looked at me strangely.
“Car could be on its way to Saudi Arabia by now,” said Albright.
“I told you that the victim was helping me with my investigation.”
“I'll want to talk to you about that.” Crowe.
“Find anything here?” I asked.
“We're still looking.”
“Tire tracks? Footprints?” I knew it was stupid as soon as I said it. The rain would have obliterated such impressions.
Crowe shook her head.
I scanned the pickups and SUVs left behind by fishermen and pleasure boaters. Two sixteen-foot aluminum outboards bobbed in their slips.
